


Zauber

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Cute, Explicit Thoughts, Flowers, Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Intersex Character, Language, M because Wade, Not a lot of dialogue, Other, descriptive, hidden communication, mental issues, stress writing, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: People like her do not usually strike his fancy. Mostly because they are beautiful on the outside and tend to be ever so glaringly ugly on the inside. But there is something to be said about the Nymph that has decided to grace the pavements on 5th Ave today.





	Zauber

**+++**

 

She feels better like this.

The corsage hugs her upper body tight, shaping her usually defiant frame into the silhouette she sees before her mind’s eye; silk caressing her skin like a tight glove, hiding under the dark-blue material of the knee-length dress. In the golden-orange light of the sun that is just yet kissing the rooftops, she cocks her hip, tilts her head and strikes a pose in the mirror lips parting in an involuntary smile at the sight she makes. Nimbly her fingers reach for the carefully brushed wig to the right of her table smile widening as it settles over her skull like the old companion that it is.

Like this she is complete.

 

-

 

People like her do not usually strike his fancy. Mostly because they are beautiful on the outside and tend to be ever so glaringly ugly on the inside. But there is something to be said about the Nymph that has decided to grace the pavements on 5th Ave today.

She flows through the masses on dark sailor blue heels, the placement of her feet delicate and precise and his mind immediately files the information away as a movement that has needed teaching to be perfected. He can admit that it has paid off. Her legs go on for days, strong calves, sturdy knees, thighs vanishing under the edge of the skirt of a dress matching the shoes in color.

He is seated on a small table in front of a _Starbucks_ , gorging on his New York Cheesecake that is about as authentic as Taco Bell‘s entire menu and she catches his eyes soon enough for him to take the time to inspect her thoroughly: trailing his gaze from her shoes – _he wants to_ _lick them_ – up her legs, towards her beautifully, symmetrically tapered waist, up to the gentle swells of her chest – _not enough to hold,_ _ **but definitely good enough to put clamps on**_ – and further up to her long, gorgeous, delicate neck – _**10/10 would get off on feeling it constrict under their hands**_ – and finally, just as she prances out of the way of a busy paper-boy with a gentle, amused smile and grace that would make a Prima Ballerina green with envy, her face. Pouty lips, straight nose, high cheek-bones, deep brown eyes catching his and holding his gaze, defiant, amused, challenging, sparkling.

And then she dances past him to the even rhythm of the clack-clack-clack of her heels and a refreshingly soothing waft of lavender.

He doesn’t turn to look after her and instead closes his eyes to commit the apparition to memory. The likelihood of seeing her again is Zero – but that doesn’t mean he can’t take this picture out in the near future to have a little fun with it.

 

-

 

She does get to see the stranger again. The man with the piercing eyes whose look made her feel ten inches taller, five pounds lighter and about as sexy as a bra commercial. He has wandering eyes and she knows that, today, there is a lot to see.

Yesterday’s patrol was a little harsh on her and although most of the black and blue spots on her knees, shins and thighs have vanished – _Thor bless radioactive Spider_ _s_ – the laceration on her lower arm had still needed bandaging. So today, the burgundy material of her shirt and sleeves wraps around her like a soft hug, real and sturdy where her black skirt is flighty and takes flight in the lightest of breezes.

She knows where his eyes get stuck when she passes him by and a soft exhalation-groan reaches her sensitive ears behind synthetic hair that swishes forward as she ducks her head to hide the smile she cannot fully explain. _2-0 for her._

 

-

 

She should not invite his eye in the way she does; she really shouldn’t. But for the last ten days she’s been taking the same route to wherever it is she works, passing him by at his usual table in front of the decrepit Starbucks. Aside from the fact that it is dangerous for him to have a routine in any way at all, it is even more dangerous to be caught looking at a woman who has probably no combative history to speak of – _her body gives no indication of_ _strenuous activity besides dancing maybe but unless she intends to confuse her attackers the way Peter Quill confused Ronin that’s not going to work;_ _ **he’d pay good money to see her on a pole**_ _ **though**_ – and that is disregarding the sheer danger she courts by inviting his gaze alone. In a way one would assume she’d be flirting with death.

 _He’s convinced Death would_ _quite_ _appreciate her appearance._

Nevertheless he continues to sit at that particular Café day by day, waiting for seven-forty-five and the appearance of The Nymph; waiting for her to catch his eyes in greeting and give him an amused-challenging-sparkling look as she passes him in a waft of lavender and the gentle rhythm of her shoes clack-clacking against the pavement that spreads before her like a red carpet.

He hopes Spidey will never know about this little sin of his.

 

-

 

As time and mornings pass, she starts to explore his silhouette in greeting – in return. It is not necessarily a good idea; she is well aware of this. There are so many reasons why choosing another route to go to work is a better idea, why looking away could keep her safer, why it is treason that her heart would flutter every time she sees him. She would know: she’s written a list… _She is still writing it._

But she cannot quite evade the helpless increase of her heart-rate when she spies the soles of his combat boots under the glaring silver reflections of Starbucks’ Outdoor Furniture and her eyes travel his body in a facsimile of his during the first week of their happenstance-meetings. His jeans are rugged and washed out, soft-looking but large, spanning strong calves and bulging thigh-muscles that she wants to sink her nails into and it happens once that he sits a little sloppily and she sees the white shirt under his wide pullover, hiding his mouth-watering tapered waist. His shoulders are broad, strong and proportionate under his pullover, hoodie pulled over the frayed peak of a Baseball Cap that hides most of his face, save for the startling blue eyes that have arrested her the first time around.

She likes what she sees, interprets the hints of dips and stretches over the various pullovers he’s wearing to form a picture in her head whenever she puts her hand to herself. She hasn’t needed to look for inspiration anywhere else ever since she’s first laid eyes on him.

When he is not there one morning the pang in her chest nearly makes to want her vomit.

 

-

 

In honor of his promise to the Spider Twerp – _who has way too much power over him in that regard_ _ **and when the fuck did that even happen**_ – his blades weep with the spilled blood of enemies that will live a severely incapacitated life in the near future. No direct kills; no vital organs pierced. Just a few limbs severed – _could be treated if done soon_ – a few arteries nicked – _survivable_ _if_ _they pulled out of the fight effective immediately_ – and occasionally a tendon cut – _**for those who didn’t get the message and were better off never being able to hold a gun again… or stand for that matter**_. He sets down the girl on the border of Wakanda, unwilling to risk his hide even for the sister of the King and the contract he has running with her, and cannot help but think of Lavender when the sun rises in the East.

 

-

 

They are vicious in a way they haven’t been ever since the death of Uncle Ben.

Their hits land critical areas with barely any restraint and more often than not it is a good idea as well as shameful necessity to call an ambulance right along with the police when they leave whatever dark alley they’d happened to be in and they know – _Great Thor_ _do they know_ – that this is not the way they’ve chosen but for the first time in a long time they cannot quite remember how to numb the pain inside of them without resorting to violence. _For the first time they realize how dangerous it is to become attached to an un_ _known_ _variable._

On the third day they scrap together their measly savings and invest in a bona fide tree-trunk that Wolverine delivers to their backyard, takes the cash for and never again asks about. They do not confide in anyone when they beat their fists bloody on the red ironwood and go to sleep to the evenly pulsating ache of their knuckles.

Every morning the empty chair mocks them.  
Every evening their patrols get more daring.  
Every night their fists bleed.

And then he comes back.

 

-

 

The first thing he notices are the swollen joints of her knuckles, so glaringly out of place with her otherwise irreproachable appearance: the soft pink gauze of her dress, her impeccable black heels and her black, sleek blazer. Her arms look just this side of short and frail enough to vanish into its sleeves, but his eyes are keener than that and he notices instantly the downturn of her beautiful, pouty lips – _ **still wouldn’t mind seeing them wrapped around his cock**_ _, feeling them against his skin_ – the frown of her carefully shaped brows, the hunch of her delicate, skinny shoulders – _**wouldn’t even survive him pushing her against a wall without breaking probably**_ – and the slight hitch in the rhythm of her shoes meeting the ground.

His feet are under his chair in an instant, pushing against the ground and ready to lift him out of his seat at any second and he curses his automatic response a mere moment later at the loud scrape of his movement. Her eyes fly up to his and he realizes that she hasn’t even noticed him sitting there and _she stops dead._

He’s never much been a paragon of anything ‘good’ in his lifetime but he must have reached a new low because her breath locks in her throat for an instant – long enough for her eyes to water and her steps to wobble just a smidgen more before she catches herself, straightens her spine, ducks her head defensively between her shoulders and whooshes past him with an angry sort of elegance and a waft of lavender he can’t help but turn after.

For a moment as she crosses the street the bangles on her wristcatch the rays of the sun – _she sparkles_ _pink and silver_ – and he can’t help but notice the Saharan dryness in his mouth and the rapid palpitations of his cardiovascular muscle.

He’s screwed.

Badly.

 

-

 

Because the saying ‘lightning never strikes twice’ has been revoked as a universal truth ever since the (re) appearance of Thor Odinson, it just so happens that their day does not get any better.

Her knuckles still ache from their acquaintance with the ironwood the night before when the harsh screech of metal against solid rock tears her out of theself-imposed prohibition of looking at _the chair_ and she startles badly enough for her feet to need conscious re-calculation of balance on her heels and for a second she feels like Bambi on Ice, eyes widening when she catches those startling blues across the way. It feels like her heart jumps into her throat, squeezing her airways painfully without any reason at all, safe for the fact that _there he is_ – before she realizes how stupid it is to attach herself to a person she doesn’t fucking know and she squeezes the hand that is out of sight and hidden in a sleeve to remind herself of the dull ache in her joints before she stalks past him and curses herself for catching his scent – _coal and leather and patchouli_.

She’s not on her best behavior at work, but she gets cut some slack because Jameson is a dick most days and wouldn’t notice if a bull shitted in the foyer so long as he doesn’t have to look at it – still hasn’t noticed that the name on her contract does not actually fit her physical attributes – and her co-workers are stressed enough without trying to worry about her well-being.

And because these things always relativize with time, the incident doesn’t look so bad in retrospective when she slips out of her skin and into their costume.

Which is, precisely, when lightning strikes a second time and they find themselves at the service ending of a gun in the hands of a horrendously angry mercenary and they don’t have the patience to find out just what the fuck crawled over the decrepit liver of the man before their own temper rises to meet his in an unheard confused-angry-hurt roar that is stifled behind a mask. It’s talking fists before tacos on the quiet rooftops of New York as it stretches out in front of them, sirens howling with the chasm in their souls.

“Really needed that, Baby Boy.”--the mercenary says when the last rays of the sun have vanished behind the nondescript stretch of land in front of them, painting the canvas-like sky in pinks and oranges and light to darker blues.

He makes no move to stand up and leave and to be quite honest their femur is still aching from the haematoma they’re sure they’ve sustained after the blow it suffered earlier. They want to tell him not to call them that but it’s wasted air – they’ve tried often enough. “Mh.”--they hum instead, lying on their back, arms akimbo, in a show of trust that maybe should not be given to a man that has been trying to bash their skull merely three hours ago. The merc doesn’t even budge to look back at them. “Would you think bad of me if I did too?”

The snort makes them tilt their head, eyes stuck on the broad, sharply defined silhouette of the man set off against the darkening sky – the hilt of one of the _katanas_ glints at them like a wayward star.

“No, Baby Boy, I would not.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Until the oranges and pinks and violets are gone from the horizon and only then does he turn to look at them – the urge to flex their abdominal muscles is real, but they refrain, remain pliant and open and trusting; maybe this is why he speaks again.

“What kind of non-alcoholic morning-drink do you give a woman when you’ve really fucked up?”--he asks, quietly, quickly and roughly and the cadence of his voice indicates that there is absolutely no expectation of an answer, but they find themselves wanting to help either way. Because it’s not often that he opens up and it’s even less often that it happens in deference to something personal, and despite all the warnings they’ve received in relation to him, they cannot help but think that he is actually the only grown-up around who doesn’t mind teaming up with them even under circumstances that are not world-threatening.

“Breakfast-morning or Pre-work-morning?”--they ask; because it is a distinction to be made. They love their coffee, no doubt, but one cup for breakfast and one cup for the trip is one too much and will have them jittery for the rest of the day. So yes, it makes a difference.

“Pre-work.”--he sounds genuinely surprised they’ve been listening.

“Smoothies for nice weather.”--they answer. Few things say ‘I’m sorry – I fucked up – Please forgive me’ like a healthy berry smoothie, plenty sweet and plenty creamy. Also: unlikely to burn the tongue and cause an unnecessary spill.

“And for not so nice weather?”

They want to remind him that, currently, the weather is nice all the time, that there hasn’t been a single drop of rain for weeks and that even the forecast has nothing to say in the way of water from the skies but then remember that meteorology is not an exact science and even less so when its used to generate results for the broad populace. They shrug instead. “Tea?”

The man snorts again but it’s an amused sound, lighter than it has been hours ago when it had been accompanied by a sneer that had been audible even through a voice modulator. “Tea.”--he repeats giddily and a little stupid.

Surprisingly they do not feel the need to _bash the tree_ that evening. Their knuckles thank them in the morning – closing buttons is delightfully easier.

 

-

 

He’s there _because_.

The streets are a little busy, as usually, and the croissant in front of him looks like an affront to the French Cuisine, but he hasn’t been eating properly these last few days – _hasn’t been able to stomach it_ – and it’s high time that something goes down the fodder hatch. Doesn’t matter if it’s a violation of hard-working bakers everywhere.

She hasn’t been around for a few days now and he doesn’t know if she’s elected to take another route to work or if she goes earlier or if she’s switched work-places at all – _**or if he’s just stupid in the head and she was a hallucination;**_ _wouldn’t be the first time_.

But he’s stubborn and even if she’s a hallucination, she was a damn pretty one and she hadn’t tried to skewer him through the dick – _**yet**_ – so there’s a chance she wasn’t an actual figment of his – _admittedly very vivid_ – imagination.

Therefor waiting it is. People underestimate how very patient he can be, how quiet he can lie in wait for the perfect shot to line up – granted he offers up plenty of ammunition to come to this conclusion, but that’s the way he likes it. Being unseen is nine-tenths of the job.

 

-

 

Her heart is a silly thing. A very, very silly thing that hasn’t heard of physical limitations, apparently, because the way it hammers against her rib-cage one would think it’s attempting to jump either through her skin or through her throat and that just isn’t possible… medically speaking.

But he’s there. 

And she’s there.

Because. 

She owes it to herself – or so she keeps telling her mirror-image – to not be tricked into the mirage of a relationship with a stranger just because he gave her ten seconds of his day in which the entirety of his attention was focused on her like a laser. She is a strong woman; confident, independent. She doesn’t need the validation of a man to know this.

She does not deny, however, that it feels good when his eyes catch hers and his shoulders drop a little as he swallows around a thin, chagrined mouth.

 

-

 

The weather gets warmer, beautiful, inviting the bees and the butterflies and the flowers and she likes to sometimes just stop at a small shop that belonged to one of Aunt May’s friends before it passed over to her grand-daughter who might have an interesting choice in wardrobe but who manages to somehow superimpose this quirkiness to the shop and the small chalkboard outside.

_Nothing says tentative interest like purple lilac_

She spends exactly fifty cents on the first few purchases respectively, purely because she likes the single flowers and the way they weave into her hair but she always leaves with a lighter step and a broader smile… and yet another trivia in the rubric of flower language.

When she dances past his table that morning, her nose is deeply immersed in the calyx of a pink peony and she doesn’t notice how close she is until her fingers slip over the silvery surface of the table, past his coffee and then – because her body doesn’t listen and her brain is occupied with something else – over the broad bulk of his shoulders.

It doesn’t occur to her what she did until she’s over the next street and when she turns around he’s gone.

 

-

 

They slip back into their routine a week after he’s come back and he will admit to have gone past caring about anything or anyone who would try to impose on his designated Me-Time. There aren’t a lot of people in the world who know what he looks like outside of his costume and even fewer who would be aware of his routines. He has weapons on him at all times named after those who have thought, before, that it would be a good idea to come at him when he was supposedly at his most vulnerable. By now the message has made it around the world: Wade Wilson is never vulnerable; no matter when you come at him it is going to be war. But it’s going to be worse if you infringe on his me-time; _he’s a religious fanatic in regards to his me-time._ _**It’s more sacred than Jesus’ left testicle**_.

And while he has no illusion of being safe at any point in his life – at all – he is well aware that there would have to be a special breed of _stupid_ to go after something he covets.

He doesn’t lie to himself by trying to convince himself that he doesn’t covet her. 

It’s dangerous, and he should stop, but he doesn’t. Because he can’t, because he won’t, because his vivid imagination has been starring one person only in these recent months and it’s as exhilarating-new as it is exhausting. He’s always been the ‘All Go’ kind of guy – the fact that a single person, no matter what persuasion, has managed to entice the entirety of his mangled mind is frankly just as devastating as it is curious.

The weather gets nicer by the day; there are fluffy clouds in the sun-lit, blue sky and there is not a single mention of rain around the city which should be suspicious _considering_ but for the first time since ever he’s not going to look a gifted horse in the mouth, as the Bard said. He’s going to be a fucking selfish bastard about this and milk it for all its worth and when it’s done and over with he’s going to shoot himself in the head repeatedly and hope that the heat of the bullet(s) will scar the memories of her into his brain so that he could keep them forever. _He thinks Memory-Vanessa worked like that. **Save for the letting go of her to make fucking Shiklah happy.** Shouldn’t have done that probably. **Spank bank was empty for ages.**_

But The Nymph is something else – is different, feels different. Entices-excites-arouses him. The waist that he can probably span with his two hands – _**bruise with his hold**_ – the long hair that tumbles down, down, down her back when it’s open – _would look thick even wrapped around his bear paws_ – the dainty joints on her – _**easy to hold down** , would look so delectable in the black silk he has at home, **she wouldn’t even be able to struggle properly**_. She doesn’t shy back from his look any longer. Has started to look at him before he left – starts again, lingers on certain spots.

His thighs. 

His shoulders.

He likes her looks – _bent backwards once to allow her a censored view of his waist_ – and recently has caught himself wondering how he would look stood behind her, how the negative of her silhouette would barely blot out the width of his hips probably. He could lift her in one of his hands if she curled up into a ball. _Fairy Nymph._

She buys herself flowers – _he knows because he observes very diligently_ – singular, always a different one, always breaks the stem with a precise twist of her fingers – _**knuckles still a little swollen,** getting better_ – and tucks the bloom into her hairdo.

But that day, her nose is deeply enamored with a beautiful peony that blends into her ensemble – _he knows he is fucked when he has to resort to his mother-given language to describe a woman; **it’s never been a good sign**_ – of black, pressed trousers and a white off-the-shoulder top that flares around her upper body but cinches tight around her well-defined arms – _**probably does Yoga and eats only regional,** **green** **bull-crap;** but then not everyone can have a healing factor like Achilles and the metabolism to go with_ – and he’s a little sad he can’t see those beautiful legs in their glory, but notices, quite suddenly, the novelty of her trajectory.

Because she’s coming closer – and not merely in a unilateral line of distance. No, no, she’s coming _closer_ , trailing the fingers not holding the fragile stem of the tiny flower self-forgotten over the silvery surface of this and that empty table before she passes his and she doesn’t stop, smooths her elegant fingertips not even shyly over the tabletop; cuticles meticulously cared for, nails barely long enough to break – _**but likely sturdy enough to scratch**_ – long, slender, digits, light and breezy, dancing around his cup and hopping, lost in a world he can’t reach, from his table towards his arm, grazing his upper arm just barely before two of her fingers very noticeably – _but still so very **fucking gently** , oh my god does she even realize what she’s doing, **touching a fucking stranger, woman!**_ – press down on the swell of his shoulder and vanish.

 _He just died –_ _**fuck it’s a likelihood.**_

 

-

 

They want to know what kind of non-alcoholic-morning-beverage to give to a grown-ass-man they’ve been kind-of-maybe-very-much-super-intensely-but-hopefully-secretly lusting after. Unfortunately they don’t get to see Deadpool and cannot ask.

 

-

 

She doesn’t think he’ll be there. Not in this weather. Three weeks of sun have finally demanded their due and it’s been nothing but rain ever since the night before – she hasn’t listened to the forecast today, not quite that interested in having to hear just how long this weather is going to dampen her mood and take her tiny bit of pleasure from her. It’s likely he won’t even be there when it stops given her most recent transgression on his person but she can’t quite convince herself to _not hope_ for his face.

Even as she steps out into the deluge in her coat, her heeled boots and her umbrella she hopes that maybe – just maybe – he might be there.

There is no reason to get her hopes up like this, she knows this, rationally, but it’s no help, beating herself up over it as she strolls towards the subway and so she doesn’t even try to reign in her treacherous heart hoping for a glimpse of the startling blue eyes – no matter where she looks, no matter that she’s nowhere near their usual meeting point.

He would be better off not sitting in the rain. 

She would be better off not attaching herself to a stranger just because he sits in a Café he likes.

And so, when she lets the masses of people carry her upward from the underground subway station and towards the gray skies and the rain again, she tries very hard to keep her eyes to the backs and the umbrellas in front of her, to not allow them to stray towards the poor abandoned chairs and tables of other Cafés. Her fingers are clammy under her umbrella and her shoulders are tight with the urge to hitch up and protect her neck from the cold draft but still she slows down – infinitesimally, barely, she can tell herself it’s because of the people in front of her – when she reaches the first cluster of empty, abandoned chairs on their usual corner.

Her head nods and her brain accepts the fact, but her heart melts into a sea of lead in her chest and her throat constricts for barely a moment before she picks up speed again and hopes to make it on time before Jameson will demand her head for being too late.

She almost collides with a shape that feels about as sturdy as the tree trunk in her living room and looks up to find solid steel looking back at her from underneath a Baseball Cap. He swallows. “Tea?”

 

-

 

He doesn’t like to think about the way that his cardiovascular muscle makes one mighty effort to jump into his throat and onto his tongue where he would have vomited it down into the collar of her black coat – _and oh my god is she ever out of his league,_ _ **and too young, fuck is she even legal yet**_ – and instead settles on burning the memory of her wet-but-warm skin into his mind when she accepts the proffered tea and remains standing in front of him as she takes the first, tentative sip.

Her eyes are glued to his and he swallows before she does when the bow of her lips molds around the small opening of the cup and she gingerly swallows – _**fuck if she’s legal, he cannot un-see this**_. The exhale that follows is pronounced by a small, visible puff of breath that smells like mouthwash and tea and he thinks he’d be happy becoming a statue right now and never moving again.

“Green.”--is the first thing The Nymph says to him.

“Wade.”--he smiles.

 

-

 

Spidey is a fucking bouncing ball that evening – _no seriously, who gave the kid sugar –_ Wade wouldn’t be able to keep up with the Twerp if he himself weren’t in such high spirits, but Green – _it’s going to stick because she blushes ridiculously beautiful and he bets his left ass-cheek she’s the bashful sort;_ _ **just hopefully not 24-7**_ – has touched his fucking hand and she’s smiled at him like his face isn’t the second coming.

Her knuckles were still rough when he brushed his thumb over them and the tiny flinch of her hand, but the lack of fear in her eyes when he looked up, indicated that she was either well aware that he’d seen or still felt it. But they didn’t lose a word over it.

Barely lost any word over anything in fact.

Still: best day ever.

 

-

 

She bags herself a Wade Wilson.

Because he got her Tea and because his hands are warm and his eyes make her tingly in all the right places when she has the audacity to think of them. Her insides feel like jelly and her heart is as excited as it is frightened. There are a lot of reasons to be frightened – she hasn’t stopped writing that list – and she must be a masochist because there she is the next day, umbrella over-head and expectant to find his tall, broad silhouette still and waiting in the masses that part around him like seals around a Great White.

He grins a little stupidly at her when she reaches him and her heart is doing somersaults that turns the rest of her all goo-goo and she doesn’t even mind that her hair is getting wet and that it will be a bitch to comb through later – in the evening – because her hand closes around the Styrofoam cup in his right and her knuckles brush over the inside of his arm and then over a patch of his abdomen when she allows the people behind her to push her a little more into him.

“Good morning.”--she greets him from under her umbrella and her hood; his rough fingertips grace her forehead like a blessing when the cup has made the transition and he pushes the black material shrouding her head up just a little, just enough to properly see her.

“Good morning, Green.”--he smiles at her and it’s a devastating weapon that smile; she’s not certain he’s not out to kill her with it.

 

-

 

They have a bad day that day. _Because all the good days are merely blank pages in the novel that is their life._ _**Only that a book about their life would probably have a difficulty finding a home even in the Horror-Thriller-Gore-Trash Genre.**_ Maybe it’s because of the weather, or maybe because of the stupid perp the night before who tried to shoot Spidey and had to catch Wade’s gourd instead, maybe it’s because of the lack of alcohol at his joint, maybe because the stars are wrong or what the fuck does he know.

Green does and doesn’t make it better. 

They shouldn’t come close to her, especially not in this condition – _he’s an emotional leper on his better days but **with their luck his mental issues could actually turn out to be contagious**_ – but when he’s tried to roll over and into the blades of his many knives, he couldn’t help but remember the bruised knuckles on her. So they stood up.

Avoided the shot gun in his closet.   
And the Beretta in his bathroom.  
And the three small calibers in his hallway.  
And the three unlicensed ones in his kitchen.  
_And the talking Machete on his shit house that kept flirting with his femoral artery._

He’s braved the streets and the coffee-house and the rain and the _**stupid-fucking-annoying-blasted**_ people pushing and pulling around him, closing in on him with their _pointy umbrella-ends_ and their _**fuck-go-shit-attitude** **and their fucking bodies that he doesn’t want to touch with any part of his own fucking body**_.

She appears seemingly out of nowhere and for some reason the push of her body against theirs is so fucking light and subtle that they don’t mind it at all despite the fact that it’s all they feel – _**and it’s toomuchtoomuchtoomuch**_ – and the slightest touch of her fingers against the inside of their wrist – _he’s considered cutting there not an hour ago_ – against the inside of their elbow and the _gentle-too-much-intense-hurtful-what_ brush of her knuckles against their gall-blader through layers and layers of cloth and skin makes them shiver in a good-bad-hot-cold kind of way.

But she gives them this stupid-fucking-Nymphen-beautiful-straight-white-teeth smile that slopes a little to the left when she greets them with that voice of hers and it’s throaty and sleepy and deeper than they anticipated but it suits her so beautifully-weirdly-fucking-achingly-perfectly – _**he wants to kill her for that voice;**_ _Larengix glaucitis, Et max laryngitis, La voce to me!_ – and their brain turns into plug-foam when the people behind her push her and she goes with it, steps into their space, into their head and he’s so bad – _bad_ _ **bad**_ _bad_ – with proximity but she slips right under the radar of any Pooly-Sense that could warn them of danger that he attempts a tiny smile – _just for her;_ _ **killer-smile coming right up**_ – and greets her in return.

She does blush. 

They want to devour her and he can’t even be certain if it’s the yay or the nay-kind of devouring.

 

-

 

Deadpool is a little off that evening, a little too unhinged a little too unfocused and unstable, but they’ve had their sights on a “Rescue-Mob” for a while now. They don’t know how it comes that they’ve started to keep on the look-out for Gangs and Mobs that could need a severe beating at any time just in case Deadpool has a bad day and could need a little non-lethal blood-shed.

But here they are and they end up mostly sitting on the rafters for this one, watching the large man mow down any opposition without even a thought to his own safety. He does not kill and when all is said and done, his lungs are perforated, his breathing is heavy and his mask pulled up over his nose to facilitate the oral expulsion of blood.

The merc gives them a tired but overly-excited smile that doesn’t go too well with the blanks of his eyes when they swing down from the rafters to heft his arm around their shoulders: “Baby Boy, if my poor battered hearth didn’t know any better I’d say you’re wooing me.”--he cackles.

And yes, maybe that’s it – but that would be absurd. “Hm.”

 

-

 

While she likes the fact that she’s being wooed with beverages, apparently, she cannot help but think that the exchange is unilateral and therefore neither equal nor fair. And really, Aunt May has brought her up better than this, which is why Spider Man doesn’t actually mind not having to do all that much work and spends their time, instead, musing over the ingredients they have at home and the recipes they can list from the top of their head.

It’s quite the list considering they’ve always been good at memorizing compounds and their mix-ratios – it comes… it came with the territory and their desire to become a biochemist at one point. Too bad a minimum-wage job at The Bugle barely covers their rent, and a scholarship is largely out of question considering their inability to keep time properly what with villains not necessarily adhering to a time-table; otherwise they’d have been all over that University.

As it stands Deadpool makes it easy on them with his temporary imbalance and when she slips out of their costume and into her night-wear, she is already on her way to the tiny kitchen – because no one can say no to chocolate chip cookies, right?

 

-

 

The rain has let up which means that in spite of the fact that it’s still quite a little chilly, he’s seated on his usual table outside, wrapped in a warm hoodie and… even though he’s still a little out of whack, it’s better today. Spidey has been a real friend yesterday; came through for them; gave them a few toys to chew on – good man; marvelous Baby Boy.

Either way when they take a seat today, Smoothie with his coffee and insulting croissant – waiting for pick-up – their head is screwed on a little tighter than the day before. It might just be he’s not that much of a threat to her on this fine day.

And Green is a vision when she finally shows up on the radar, slipping into the open from underneath the ground along with a swell of masses hailing from the subway – her coat is open, revealing the long, burgundy pullover over a pair of sloppy jeans rolled up at the hem. She looks tired but her eyes light up when she finds him and there’s that smile, sloping to the left, revealing her canines before she crosses the street and comes to stand at his side.

“Good morning.”--she says as her left hand dives into the bag hanging from her shoulder, he pushes the smoothie towards her as he returns the greeting and something about it _stops_ her for the barest second – long enough for him to notice the change in her face – before she reaches for it and exchanges it for a Tupperware Box.

She’s still standing next to him when he opens the box to find the Holy Grail of Baked Goods and the croissant looks increasingly desolate on his table because _Chocolate Chip Cookies_. His mouth tries to work around the words he means to say but nothing comes out properly, so he gives her a look and finds her giving the smoothie a pensive look. He wouldn’t mind changing position with the smoothie.

“You know you have nothing to apologize for.”--she finally says and takes a sip of the creamy beverage, lips closing tightly around the green straw, humming when the taste hits her tongue. And for a second he flounders – _because how could she possibly know?!_ – before he settles for shifting a little lower in his chair. He’s not good with social _anything_ and doesn’t want to insult her, so he remains quiet.

Her fingers find his shoulder, unerringly; soft-stable-supportive-too-much. “Have a cookie, Wade. You’re quite forgiven.”

“Tea and Smoothies really do say I’m sorry, I fucked up?”

She snorts and it shouldn’t be melodious but it is and he’s so fuckedfuckedfucked when she takes another sip; the tip of her tongue sneaking past her lips to catch the droplet of the smoothie that spills over the straw once she lets go. He doesn’t think she’s aware of her seduction techniques – or that they are working _miracles_ on him; Wade grabs for a cookie. _Even if it’s poisoned it’s not like he’s going to die from it so why deny himself the pleasure._

“Well… the smoothie does.”--she gives and rests her hip against the table where he sits; he doesn’t think they’ve ever been quite that talkative before. It’s novel. _It fucks him up admittedly._ “But I meant it: You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He’s quiet for a few moments during which he’s experiencing Baking Nirvana and groans a little at the chocolaty deliciousness that melts on his scarred tongue and inundates his mouth and his taste-buds unlike anything he’s tasted before. He’s going to become religious and worship her baking from now until forever.

She gives him a mirthful look over the top of her cup. “Good?”

“Orgasmic.”--he blurts before he can catch himself and because he cannot believe himself, he quickly swerves off topic and nods towards the smoothie instead. “That mean you _don’t_ want the smoothie?”

And she’s a god-send – has to be – because even though the blush on her cheeks is high and mighty – _probably mightier than Thor himself_ – she makes a playful side-step and pulls the plastic towards her. “Not giving up on a smoothie, big guy.”--she chides almost scandalized. “I’ll spit in it if I have to.”

“Not really a deterrent, Green.”--he smirks at her and relaxes into the short exchange because banter he understands. He has a PhD in banter.

“Have a cracker, Pretty Polly.”--she snorts even as she eases away, and her fingers dance over his arm, over his shoulder where they linger just a second, press-cup-hold for just a moment, in a farewell that leaves his heart light and the smile on his face stuck there like glue.

He’s going to have all the damn crackers he pleases.

 

-

 

The plastic cup is long empty when she puts it on the rickety table in her kitchen and she’s felt a little stupid carrying it around these last few hours, but for some reason it feels like more than a mere plastic cup. It’s symbolic, mostly, even though they haven’t yet been able to decide on what it would possibly stand for – is it the unintended reveal, is it the acknowledgment of the fact that they do now have a _thing –_ but as she slips out of her skin and into their costume in the evening, they cannot help but stare at the stupid plastic cup still throning on their table.

And there are several things to consider here, starting with the fact that they’ve made chocolate chip cookies for _Deadpool_ and going all the way to their course of action in the near future because there needs to be something to be done – the danger has become that much more imminent and real.

They do not want to know just what it looks like when Wade Wilson – and how come she has not made that connection earlier, isn’t she like… the clever part of them? – realizes he’s been supposedly duped. However unintentional it has been.

They’re going to lose it all.

 

-

 

But she’s going to do right by him – damn her own self. She likes Wade, of course she does, he’s been the highlight of pretty much every day since that first day he’s set eyes on her and she thinks that there might have been a chance of them actually building something – maybe. Wade could possibly have his own issues if the scar tissue pulling tautly over the skin of his face was any indication, there’s a chance he might have appreciated her, might have agreed to… something more. Granted this is going to be a far-away dream this time tomorrow, but she just… has to.

_Because Aunt May taught her better._

 

-

 

Spidey is more quiet than usually. Which says something considering that the Hero-Vigilante is already known throughout the state for being tight-lipped, except to whisper careful soothes into the ears of traumatized civilians and other innocent by-standers and onlookers. His silent countenance automatically erased him from the list of possible allies as far as the Avengers were concerned.

That and he looks about fifteen. Though any quick search on the wide, wide interwebs would lead to the logical conclusion that the Baby Boy had to be at least close to legal by now – _**that or he’s a precocious little fuck;** there’s enough of ‘em out there_.

But he’s not too worried about the Spider Twerp because he still has some of those beautiful cookies in the Tupperware waiting for him at home – he’s kind of curious if he can make himself come while he has one of them in his mouth. Because while he doesn’t think he has a food fetish he also hasn’t really tried before.

 

-

 

She takes her time that morning. That last morning.

Because she’s a selfish thing, always has been and always is going to be and if she really has to give this all up, she’s going to give herself a proper goodbye-party. And that starts by standing up early on her one free-day, showering and choosing her garments ever so carefully. If this is to be the end she’s going to find a way to burn the memory into her brain and her blood.

Her heart hammers against the light blouse she’s chosen that morning when she enters the flower shop and uses up her last penny to create the perfect bouquet she’s never going to get herself – it’s the first one she ever creates in such a way and the daughter of Aunt May’s friend has a field day with her, swishing through the shop left and right, finding the right flowers to the sentiments and she realizes that there’s a high chance it’s going to be the last bouquet she’s ever going to create too.

But what a way to say the words.

Barely is she out of the flower shop that she can already see the glint of silver in the distance, the chairs and the tables and she doesn’t think she’s imagining the man with the Tupperware box on the last table, waiting, watching, _still_.

This is her last day; she tells herself as she swallows the thick web of anxiety and grief that the spider of cursed emotion weaves in her throat – she’s going to enjoy it and she’s going to cry herself to sleep tonight.

_She’s going to need a new tree-trunk in the next few weeks._

 

-

 

“Walk with me.”--she offers when she arrives at his side, bouquet in her hand instead of a single flower – _wonder what’s the occasion_ – wrapped carefully in light blue paper that obscures the various blooms in its cocoon and because she looks expectant and radiant and beautiful enough to lick, he stands carefully, taking both of their drinks in his hands before he moves around his table and bends his elbow lifting it into her direction in a silent question. She takes it without hesitation.

“You don’t work today?”

“It’s my day off.”

They wander off quietly into Central Park her hand gripping at the crook of his elbow with her dainty, long beautiful fingers, playing with a fraying thread there, pressing her shape into his side. He doesn’t mind that they’re not talking, doesn’t mind that – for now – quiet companionship is what he’s getting. there’s something odd about _Green_ today and it irks him that he cannot put his fingers to it. Which reminds him.

“I’m going to be leaving on business tomorrow, Green.”--he says quietly. “Promise I won’t have to go looking for obscure healing ointments for those knuckles?”

Her hand tenses around his arm, pushes her nails into the material of his hoodie and the flesh of his lower arm, but the pain is dulled by the textile in the way and the large look she gives him as her steps falter a little. He balances her out without a word to it – _but boy when has the last time been that someone’s reacted like this to his leaving?_ – and pushes her smoothie into her hand instead.

She doesn’t look at him when she wraps her lips around the straw and takes a deep sip. For a few moments it’s the only sound that accompanies the gentle tap-tap of their foothalls against the pavement.

“When are you going to come back?”

Loaded question that one. Could be two days. Could be never – eh, probably not never but… you know. “Guesstimate is a week.”--he allows instead. It shouldn’t take that long but in case of complications he cannot say for certain. Her body pushes against him more tangibly for a moment before she takes a breath and regains her composure. It’s curious how keenly she seems to feel about a man she really _doesn’t know._ _ **At all.**_

And for the first time he considers the possibility that she’s a spy.

That he’s been a target of clever manipulation all time long.

The notion sits uneasy in his stomach.

“Going to miss you in the mornings.”--she murmurs, too quiet to hope that he can hear her, but he does and the sincerity nukes the queasiness in his insides because he’s been at the receiving end of a Black Widow Plot and he’s looked through her. Unless she’s an extra terrestrial out for his blood – _improbable, Watson, but not impossible_ – she actually means it.

And that throws him for another loop entirely. The brain therefor resorts to his standard setting: Engage Sass. “Pfft, you’re going to miss your freebie drinks in the morning.”--he pings back towards her but she stops – suddenly and unexpectedly – to give him a look that is about as chagrined as it is wary.

_He should hit himself for putting the second emotion there._

“You do know that I could have done without the… non-alcoholic morning-beverages?”--she tries and she already looks like she’s eating her words, beautiful mouth twisting like she’s bitten off a piece of Brokkoli on a Pizza and that wording is _too damn familiar to be a coincidence. **Not that such a thing has ever existed.**_

“Baby-Boy?”

 

-

 

“Still not a boy.”--she shoots him down, haughtier than she intended to but her defense is a natural reaction by now, no matter how desperately _she_ wants to keep Wade. The man is gaping at her like a guppy out of water and that comparison should not stick the way it does. Instead of launching into an explanation that she doesn’t know how to give, she abuses his immobility like _they_ would in a fight and thrusts the bouquet under his nose, already feeling way more stupid than she has in her whole short life.

Wade Wilson has never been hers. She’s not losing him. _They_ however, are.

“I thought it was very obvious the first time around when you’ve been ogling my waist but in case you need it spelled out: not a boy.”--she pauses. “Despite the fact that my birth certificate says Peter and I have no qualms with the name at all.”

Or her larger than would-be-normal clitoris. It’s an appendage she’s come to accept about them, just as the fact that she still bleeds but will never be fertile… or have a proper cleavage. Admittedly the latter annoys her most because she is one hundred percent certain that any boobage of hers would be glorious and beautiful, but it suits them just fine when in the costume. Nothing to bind means nothing to constrict their movements.

Wade is still doing his remarkable rendition of Dory and by now her heart has climbed up to her tongue and is threatening to spill her – _their –_ deepest darkest desires that he really doesn’t need to know yet so she steps closer in a last show of bravery – after this she’s going to have used it all up, she just knows it – and presses her lips to his scarred, warm, beautiful cheek, inhaling the coal-patchouli-leather perfume of his that, maybe, is actually more gun-powder-residue-patchouli-uniform perfume and whispers a soft “Come home safely.” into his mangled ear before their proximity makes her face burn and she turns away with a parting glance at the small speck of lipstick they’ve left on his cheek.

They’re certain they’re losing him. But they have to walk away.

 

-

 

New York City’s Heroes and Vigilantes alike breathe a collective breath of ease when Deadpool fares the country wellfor a mission that will take him away for an uncertain period of time, despite the fact that he details this information in voice-mails that he leaves on pretty much everyone’s number, adding the treacherously violent sounding bid that they better ‘watch out for my Baby Boy, or else’.

Because no one is quite certain just who the fuck would be insane-depraved-desperate enough to actually get so close to the mercenary that the moniker of Baby Boy would be appropriate, the first two days are spent in quiet, but confused relaxation before the information sinks into the abyss of blissful silence around New York’s Hero Community.

 

-

 

He is gone for an entire month.

Spider Man has been caught in increasingly daring plots of his adversaries, ranging from finding himself at the mercy of the Sinister Six and an electrifying sewer-date with an eight-armed geriatric to suffering near-deafening – deafenation? – by the sonic miracle that is Ulysses Klaw.

Surprisingly enough it’s the latter that gains them an unlikely ally – for the time being at least. “I’d-a thought yer folks would’a heeded the threat of a merc who ain’t known for no mercy.”--the Wolverine muses when he sets the Spider down in their back-yard. They haven’t needed any more tree-trunks – the promise to Wade still stands after all – but the man has been known for his sharp intellect when it suits him.

They can’t hear him properly, feel the vibrations of his voice more like, and would currently not be able to formulate a proper answer if their Science Grade depended on it – their body feels like liquid cotton, and there is a real fear that prolonged exposure to armed sonic waves could literally make them burst at the seams or something, but the Wolverine continues to rumble at them either way.

He’s still there in the morning when they wake up and call up Jameson to let him know that today is a sick-day. Their first ever.

The mutant doesn’t leave their side. They do not get to be _her_ for quite a while.

 

-

 

Which is why the lapse in their rationale has to be pardoned but while the first sound of explosions sends them into veritable fits of panic, the moment they set eyes onto the red and blue _fireworks_ that go with it, she rolls her shoulders in their body and starts to mentally take stock of her wardrobe.

“Well kid, ‘s been a blast.”--the Wolverine grunts from behind them and they owe him, they know they do, so they turn and lift their cowl – just for this, just for _their_ face – and give him a tiny smile.

“Let me know when I can make up on the debt.”--they offer, but the rough man’s eyes are stuck somewhere on their face, shaking his head already.

“Had a li’l som’th’n’ to make up for anyways. Give ‘im my best, would’ja?”

With those words he’s gone. And so is Spider Man.

 

-

 

She takes great pleasure in her bathroom that morning. Relishes in the strawberry shampoo, the peeling shower wash, the exfoliation that takes way too long and feels like the removal of eons of dirt and dead skin, the epilation and finally, finally, finally the sight of her most beloved _necessaire_ hidden under the sink for the duration of Wolverine’s Camping Out at hers. She’s a little miffed that she’s needed to air out the scent of him from her living room, but at least her bedroom smells still like her – and only her.

The light brush of invisible powder over her skin feels like fairy dust granting her wings and the finishing lipstick touch like a benediction.

When comes the long-awaited moment of stepping into her favorite corsage and attaching the Stay-Ups properly around her thighs she feels like it doesn’t even matter any more whether or not Wade is going to be at their corner. She’s missed this way too much. And she’s never again going to deny herself – external sensitivities be damned.

But because she is thorough and because she hopes fervently that he _will_ be there, she chooses a peach-pink dress that sways like gauze around her figure and flutters in gentle sighs against her skin. She doesn’t need a pullover – she doesn’t think so – but nevertheless thinks ahead and puts a large scarf in her bag. One can never know.

It’s just before she leaves her tiny decrepit apartment – already walking on clouds and dancing on rainbows from the sheer beauty of not having to uphold an image she does not feel comfortable with – her hands reach for the long but set aside plushy she will never admit to having looked for. But it’s in her bag before she can think twice and she is down the stairs before she can even think of putting it back.

It’s a beautiful day outside.

 

-

 

He should probably feel like death warmed over after the month-long ordeal down in Sudan, but he’s actually had the pleasure to meet up with Death once again and have a little chat with the one ex he actually doesn’t mind too much. She has a wicked sense of humor after all, and she’s still a romantic cutie pie. _There’s also the huge plus that she doesn’t hold a super grudge against him for the way their relationship has turned out._

And despite the fact that he feels literally every muscle and every bone he bears, he is up before sunrise – _admittedly he didn’t quite go to sleep, busy night yesterday; **had to make good on a few promises**_ – and carefully sorting through the dried flowers of a bouquet.

Wade Wilson has always been a shitty romantic, but he’s never before been wooed in ‘flower’ and he will admit that it’s taken him some time to decipher it all. Were it anyone else’s gift, he’d have considered it more work than it’s worth. Taking into account that it’s his Baby Boy – _**all grown up, all female, very much fuckable**_ – there’s probably no work too arduous – _ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough!_ Fairy Nymph doesn’t need to know he’s had post-life help – _**Victorian Era was very much her jam;** yessiree_.

The tiny Tupperware, now devoid of all cookies that might ever have resided within its plastic belly, he’s been given on a sunny day that seems like ages ago sits on his kitchen table.

 

-

 

He strikes her fancy with the rugged way of his dress, the worn out jeans and the casual attitude he carries his bulk with – lean muscle and pure power that glides through the horde of people he emerges from like a Lion on the hunt. Most of the heads he turns barely reach his shoulder and it does something to her insides to watch this powerful creature propel itself through the morning masses. There is something to be said about the hunter that has decided to grace the pavements on 5th Ave today.

She is seated on a small table in front of a Starbucks, sipping occasionally on a Smoothie and nibbling on a contraband muffin courtesy of Aunt May’s visit two days ago with clandestine movements. His gait is ground-taking, the large bear-paw-hands hidden in the pouches of his gray hoodie and his broad shoulders squared as if in an effort to shield himself from an ambush. She wants to bite there until he has a valid reason to hunch his shoulders up like that.

His face is hidden by the shadow of the peak of his Baseball Cap, donned under the hood for additional shadowing of his face – but his eyes catch hers, hold her gaze, amused, sparkling, challenging, warm. The foothalls of his pace are a steady cadence in the rush of morning traffic and she almost misses the rhythm when it comes to a halt next to her table.

“Nymph.”--is the first thing he says to her, pushing a small wreath of _mossy saxifrage_ – so says the card going with it – towards her restless fingers, trying to anchor themselves around her Smoothie.

“Wade.”--she smiles, plucking the gift up and already pulling through her hair with practiced, gentle ease.

“Walk with me.”

 

-

 

New York City’s Heroes and Vigilantes are not certain how it happens that, from one day to the other, Deadpool seems to stick to Spider Man’s hide like super fine craft glitter. Most of them are, admittedly, still reeling from the noxious fumes the merc had drowned them in upon his return and would love to have a piece of the sword-wielding menace – but it turns out that Spider Man packs quite the punch and doesn’t want his partner touched by anything or anyone.

Because no one is quite certain how it happened that the pristine, innocent, philantropist, peaceful Spider Man came to be insane-depraved-desperate enough to actually get so close to the mercenary to warrant the moniker of ‘Baby Boo!’ – stated in various degrees of excitement, in various levels of sound and pronunciations – the first week after their official announcement in regards to their _partnership_ are spent in confused, but quiet, stagnation before the information sinks in and all hell lets lose around New York’s Hero Community.

Peter Parker shakes her head and her hair catches in the early morning summer breeze, glinting golden-white-bronze in the steel blue eyes of the man in her bed.


End file.
